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“Yes.”
“Say what you’re consenting to.”
I breathe. “A spanking over your lap with your hand.” We’d talked about this throughout the week. Specifically, what I was open to trying and how we would progress or stop if I decided it wasn’t for me. We talked about how the first spanking would look, and perhaps that is one reason I tested him. I didn’t want to keep replaying the idea over and over in my head.
“Clothed or bare?”
The question makes my entire face heat, and lower too, a slow pulse begins in my clit that I wasn’t braced for. This is absolutely turning me on. I take a second to recognize what is happening to my body before I look at him. Really look. And for the first time I let myself say the thing I’ve been circling since he opened the door.
“Bare.”
Christopher goes very still. “You said over your underwear on the phone.”
“I’m changing my answer.”
“Amber.”
“I want to feel it. All the way. I don’t want fabric between us tonight.”
A muscle moves in his jaw. I’ve learned to read that muscle like a scoreboard. “That changes things.”
“I know.”
“Say why you want that.”
I swallow. “Because I don’t want anything softening it. Because I trust you. Because…” My voice drops. “Because I want you to see me. All of me. Not managed. Not performing. Just me completely vulnerable, in front of you.”
Christopher exhales slowly. “Okay. Bare. My hand only. We stop the second you say Red. Do you remember the conversation we had the other day? Yellow means slow down and check in. You have the power to use your safeword and change your mind before and during.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. That seems to affect him. His jaw tightens slightly. “Alright.” He shifts back in the chair. “Come here, little girl.”
Every nerve in my body lights up. I step closer. Christopher guides me gently over his lap, and his hands go to the waistband of my shorts, patient, unhurried, giving me a thousand chances to say stop. I don’t take any of them. He eases my shorts and underwear down together, just enough, and the air of his living room meets bare skin for the first time since I walked in. Heat climbs up my neck. It’s not shame or embarrassment. Exposure. The good kind. The kind that only works because of who’s looking.
His palm settles flat against my skin, warm and broad and shockingly gentle for a man about to spank me. He rubs once, slow, grounding.
“You deliberately skipped a meal,” he starts.
“Yes, Sir.”
“On purpose, to see if I meant what I said and would follow through.”
“Yes. I did.”
“This isn’t about proving I’m stronger than you.”
“I know.”
“It’s not about embarrassing you.”
“I know.”
“It’s accountability. Are you ready?”
